THE CURSE OF PINK CARNATIONS
-for lynn huff
you wrote you missed the carnations
mother used to keep on the kitchen table.
i send a dozen pink ones
& you are insulted,
telling me - the language of lovers
is roses, red ones no less.
i sit in the darkness,
mist falling as if whispers of the ancients.
i gather them in my beard & boots,
but i am able to translate only "cold, wet."
you are angered at my limitations,
swearing real poets have visions far purer than mine.
i watch the morning sun call the fog home.
off the dark river, i watch the blue heron rise
& i question my passion, my visions -
but never your elegance & beauty.
never your beauty.
* * * * * *
HOME COOKING
"Live with wolves, howl like a wolf."
-Russian Proverb
mother, pray for me. perhaps cold stone
will come to life! miracles, door
to door, like salesmen. you learn
to discern between crap & salvation.
mother, pray for me. O, the sins i celebrate
are so mundane! mere consumptions
of time. are you certain God
even notices such pettiness?
no need for repentance. the dead
offer no insights. no omens in their bones
other than death as cold
as any November street corner.
O, rather than prayers, send invitations
for dinner. no special holidays.
there is nothing as redeeming
as mother's cooking.
* * * * * *
LAMENT FOR BETSY
SO: my blood
no longer contains visions?
i did not think you would notice
or care for that matter.
i had thought the bridge (of friendship)
was stronger than the rain
down broken mountains.
the error was mine.
i sit in a darkness
you would understand - perhaps,
but not the bandages.
they are holier than voices.
& yes, i still beat my demons
from the door
with these poems
you call defamations.
* * * * *
(c) Kenn Mitchell, 2002